Snow
by WailingSiren
Summary: Snow, scruffy orphans, oh ... and magical grime? Tristan has a bizarre encounter. One-Shot.


**Disclaimer: King Arthur belongs to Touchstone Pictures © **

**A/N: first****King Arthur fic … this one-shot just came to me today because of all the snow we've had today in the UK! Whoop! Reviews/ CC are much appreciated. And, seriously let me know if I've butchered Tristan's character because that's the last thing I want. Thanks ;)**

**P.S This occurs a few years before the film, that's why Bors only has five children.**

Snow

Snow. It shimmered and twirled down from the sky in a chilling breeze when Tristan saw her; a young, girl of nine summers struggling to roll a ball of snow that was twice her size. Judging by its wonky path along the ground, it had journeyed an impressive distance from the opposite end of the fort.

_Poor mite,_ he found himself thinking, as he rode from hunting in the woods that eve; she was scrawny, with arms like twigs and long, scraggly blonde hair that waved in her eyes. Her clothing was a threadbare tunic and a woolen cloak that was darned in several places. Surely there were brothers to help her? Her Mother? Other children? He probed the area, and saw that the child was quite alone; save for a few Roman soldiers that patrolled the turrets of the fort.

He sniffed, the biting cold freezing his nose. Winter was here, the day was waning and still this young girl was out here alone, exposed to the elements. There was a moan, and the girl heaved the giant ball over, panting violently with the effort. Then another moan and the ball rolled over again, only this time a revolting, green substance was stuck to the bottom. The girl paused, and Tristan saw that she was examining it curiously. She extended her arm, touched it and was about to bring it to her mouth when –

"No!"

The girl whipped round and saw Tristan trotting towards her. She froze at the sight of him; hand paused before mouth and wide-eyed. Big blue eyes soaked up his tall frame, his concealed face behind matted hair, formidable armour with a flapping cloak, and a metal sword that was longer than her whole body. He looked like some demon bat out one of her father's stories … "_Blood sucking, sprites that will tear you to pieces …"_

The girl's mouth opened.

"D- Don't eat me …"

Tristan bit back a smile and slowly dismounted, raising his hands to show he was unarmed.

"I'm not going to eat you."

The girl gaped at him, and unconsciously brought her hand to her mouth.

"No!" Tristan walked over. He eyed the foul, green slime on the girl's hands with exasperation. The girl didn't move, but she continued to watch him as if he had sprouted an extra head.

"_Don't _eat that grime, girl," he said gruffly, kneeling to her level.

The girl frowned. "Our Tommy said that green an' yellow snow is good for you," she said defensively. "It makes you strong."

"It makes you sick," said Tristan, raising an eyebrow. He whipped out a cloth from his sleeve. "Let's get it off."

"No!" the girl flinched away as if Tristan's hands had scalded her. "It's my grime!"

Tristan suppressed a sigh. "No – listen to m-"

But he was cut off as the girl began to speak loudly, in the same haughty know-it-all voice. It was quite alarming how her manner had changed, and now she was standing tall (as she could) with her chest thrown out. "You want the grime all to yourself, because our Tommy said that makes you grow dead quick, you can make pies from it an - an' it makes your hair go curly like the crusts on bread," she tugged at a lock of straight hair. "I'm a good girl cos' I eat all my crusts an' now am gonna keep my grime. An' you're not touching it."

The girl's fright had vanished, and Tristan watched in amazement as she blew a raspberry at him. Even teenage boys avoided him, but this little mite regarded his presence with no fear.

For a moment, he merely studied her.

"I'm sorry, child but Tommy is wrong about the grime," he murmured. "He's having a joke."

"No!"

"Yes …"

"Grime is magical."

"Grime – what?" Tristan began, whilst keeping a vigil watch on the girl's hand. He sighed. "_Grime_ is from horses' bottoms, from men's feet, from mould that grows on rotten food, from dogs that piss against walls –"

The girl cut him off again; she was shaking with laughter. "You said piss! Ummm, I'm gonna tell on you!"

Tristan's eyes widened with mock fright. "Oh no, don't do that." My goodness, snickered a voice in his head, can you see yourself now? Since when were you a natural with children? Natural at slaying men, but not pure, innocent children … _Shurrup,_ he grunted inwardly_, I am not a killing_ _machine. I'm not a Saxon …_

" … I s'pose you must be right," said the girl quietly, dragging Tristan from his thoughts. She brought the filth to her face, Tristan automatically stood up but the girl only sniffed it. She recoiled. "Ughhh! That smells stinky!"

"Yes," Tristan agreed, very relieved. "Now let's get rid of it. You can tell Tommy he's a liar."

"Can't," sniffed the girl from a bad cold, as Tristan wiped her hand. "S'dead."

He paused in cleaning her fingers. The wind seemed very cold and unpleasant all of a sudden. For a split second, and for the first time, Tristan didn't know what to say.

"Sorry," he grunted, shifting his golden eyes to her hand, but the girl merely shrugged.

"'E were killed by the yellow men a year ago."

"Yellow men?"

"Them … sections … men …"

_Sections? _

"You mean Saxons?" offered Tristan uncertainly. _Sections, that'll be a hard one to forget, _he thought, half his mind doing whoops of laughter, the other bubbling with pity_ … _"Listen, girl. Have you any parents I can take you too? It's getting dark." He knelt down again, and wrapped his cloak over her scrawny shoulders when a cold wind made her shiver. The sun was now a red slit over the trees. Again, she shook her head.

"You have no family?"

Another shake.

"Any … guardian that you trust?"

She shook her head again, gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to big for her face. But what unsettled him most, was that she didn't seem to care her family was dead. No wonder she was out here alone rolling a ball of snow. Her family, it appeared, had been dead for months, and she had possibly wandered the fort, stealing food and sleeping on doorsteps and whatnot. Perhaps other children avoided her because she looked so wild: a mane of tangled, yellow hair, a grubby face and clothing that hung off her body like excess skin. Or maybe because she was an orphan and acted as if her family was still alive.

Before Tristan knew it, he was feeling very sorry for her.

"Very well. Now, do you trust me?"

The girl paused but then nodded her head. She had suddenly turned mute.

"My name is Tristan, one of Arthur's Knights. I –"

"I'm R-Rowena," she muttered, her cheeks burning crimson despite the cold.

"Alright, Rowena," he said, surprising himself how gentle his voice sounded. "I'm going to take to you to some nice people. Bors and Vanora at the tavern at the fort. They will give you some food and clean you up."

He expected Rowena to smile, rub her hands in delight and jig on the spot; he had not expected her to shake her head with a look of horror.

"No – no not the tavern – there's scary men there, like Da was when he had jugs of ale. An – an' the mean fat man caught me stealing his stew … he yelled at me. I'm going on and on aren't I?" She tailed off and picked at her mucky nails.

The fat man … Tristan mused; such a blunt title could only befit Bors. He snorted, which made Rowena start. Now if he knew that portly Knight, with five impish children; stolen stew was next to nothing when Three had used his cuirass as a saucepan the other day. Bors had bellowed himself hoarse when discovering his charred armour, but after Vanora's countless threats, he had settled down to a large ale and everything was soon forgotten (and not because of the alcohol).

"Come on, child," he said shortly. "They won't shout at you. I'll make sure they don't," he added with a slight smile, as Rowena eyed the sword around his waist. Her face brightened.

"Really?"

"Er – yeah … really," he muttered, "just go over to …" he trailed off as Rowena marched to his bay mare, which was waiting patiently in the snow. The girl was patting the horse fondly, despite the mount's legs being thicker than her neck. "She's lovely!" Rowena exclaimed, "My Ma used have a big horse named Mack but Da slew him because his leg got brokened."

Tristan raised his eyebrows at this piece of information, unsure whether to laugh or feel sorry for the late animal. "That's sad to know, Rowena," he said, lifting her up onto the saddle. She got on fairly easily which was a relief, because he didn't fancy holding a squirming bundle whilst he rode. And despite the girl's withered appearance, she was rather heavy. Ah well, his conscience would feel clear when the lass had some good square meals, was scrubbed up and placed in a warm bed. Why he was doing this, he had no idea, but he couldn't just leave her in the snow … yes … he would see that she was settled … but that was all he could do for her.

"Ugh!"

"What?"

He frowned at her, but suddenly saw clearly what. Rowena's left leg was touching a dead pheasant hanging from his saddle from hunting.

"Just keep still," he grunted. "It won't bite."

"I know that," Rowena retorted, folding her arms but her huff faded when she glanced at the snow ball behind them. "It's lonely …"

"Well …" Tristan hesitated, as the snow began to pelt from the dark sky, "… - we can finish that tomorrow."

"Really?"

Tristan mentally kicked himself. Should he have said that? Damn, he normally thought things through – never acting on impulse – never hasty. He prided himself on his self-control …

"Yeah …"

"Thank you Uncle Tristan!"

Uncle … _what? _He blinked beneath his fringe of hair, which Rowena luckily didn't see. She was too busy cooing fond words to the horse, and patting its withers. Who, for all that was sacred, had ever called him that? Gods, he thought silently, as they rode towards the fort, she had better not say that in front of Lancelot … or Bors …

**Review? :D**


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